


No Quarter

by yehetmeup



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehetmeup/pseuds/yehetmeup
Summary: On a company retreat in Costa Rica, your husband Chanyeol notices his business partner Junmyeon leaning in a bit too close to you over drinks. Back in your hotel room, he makes sure you know exactly who you belong to.





	No Quarter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeoltidecarol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/gifts).



Most of the female diners at the casual beach-front restaurant are staring at the two men at the bar; but you can’t blame them. One man is tall, his lean body played to it’s advantage by the casual black slacks and partially unbuttoned tropical shirt he wears. His head is thrown back in animated laughter as he slaps his knee. 

His eyes crinkle at a joke his companion must have told. It would be just like the slighter man, to make some offhand joke and send his friend into fits of laughter.

They make quite the pair, you think as you tilt your glass back and forth, your husband Chanyeol and his business partner Junmyeon. The four of you, along with Junmyeon’s wife, have been friends for years, since college. Somehow all fitting together in a mishmash of personalities and quirks to form a cohesive unit.

As you sit at the table you do your best to pay attention to Lauren, their contracts manager, as she tells you in an excited voice about the plans she has for her home renovation. But you’re unable to tear your eyes away from the two of them; so different, and yet so similar.

Both have laughs that make your heart feel light, both are so good looking it’s almost painful. But while you feel endless amounts of friendship and affection for Junmyeon, Chanyeol is the bright center of your personal universe. Your lighthouse in the storm.

This trip to Costa Rica is a celebration of five successful years in business and all twenty two employees have been invited, plus their spouses or partners. You and Lauren laugh as the two best salesmen in the company start dancing along to the song being played by the band in the corner, their movements exaggerated due to the large number of shots they’ve had.

Across the restaurant you see Chanyeol get pulled away by Brian, the marketing manager. You smother a grin as his hand claps loudly on Chanyeol’s shoulder, making him wince at Brian’s intoxicated exuberance.

Junmyeon waits at the bar for a moment, thoughtfully sipping the dark liquid in his glass. When he looks up he catches your eye and you wave him over. He gives you a nod and a smile and starts heading in your direction.

He joins you, glass in hand, his shirt unbuttoned an extra button in the tropical heat, and instantly notices Lauren’s uninterrupted monologue with a laugh.

“So, Y/N, what time are we going out on the boat tomorrow?” he asks loudly, with a wink.

You turn away from Lauren apologetically and she turns to start boring the person next to her a beat later. Smothering a laugh you mouth ‘thank you’ to him. He clinks his glass to yours and draws you into a discussion about your mutual favorite TV show and the intense season finale last week.

As you talk you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve all tossed around the idea of sleeping together. Laughed about the idea of group sex at various points in the long years you’ve all been friends. It’s no secret that you and Junmyeon were attracted to each other first, when you’d spent a quarter of Introduction to Macroeconomics flirting with each other.

His hunger for knowledge, flawless ability to make puns, and adorable glasses had captured your focus for three long months before Chanyeol had come along. When he’d literally burst his way into your life in your French Literature course the following quarter.

He’d flirted with you that first day of class, making ridiculously inappropriate jokes under his breath, watching you out of the corner of his eye while you were both supposed to be paying attention to the professor.

It had taken him six class sessions to get you to agree to meet him to study together. Six long sessions where you made him work for it, refusing to deny either of you the pleasure of the chase.

You knew you were done for the minute you walked into the library and saw him waiting for you, a hungry look in his eyes and a grin teasing his lips. The two of you lasted an admirable thirty-seven minutes before he finally stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come with me’ he’d said, pulling you back into a dusty corner of the stacks.

From that first time his hands, his lips, touched yours - you knew you were claimed. He chuckled, his voice low and heady, when you moaned into his open mouth as he pressed his hardness against your thigh - and you were lost. He smiled when he found the weak spot at the base of your spine like a homing beacon - and you were found.

From that first time his palms touched your thighs, you knew there was no one else who would ever know the softness of your skin there, in your most intimate places. From the first time you came with his name on your lips, there was no other name you wanted to moan in release. From that day in the library, you were his, and he was yours.

Since Junmyeon had met his future wife the following year, the four of you had been inseparable. The idea of sleeping with each other’s spouses, or all together, was something to be teased and toyed with, but always hypothetical. Something joked about during anniversary parties, birthdays, vacations. A proverbial line in the sand no one would ever cross; but you all enjoyed the delicious dance you played when out together.

Junmeyon’s wife liked to joke that Chanyeol had a very delicious-looking neck when she’d had one too many rum and Cokes. Chanyeol enjoyed tickling her waist when you all danced together, laughing his ass off at her squeal of surprise. You always found yourself paired up with Junmyeon on trivia nights, and you’d be lying if you denied that the intense mental connection between the two of you wasn’t appealing.

The most common act of near flirtation, however, was that Jun would lean over to talk to you at loud parties, his breath brushing your ear as he made some comment or joke. The gesture was innocent, his natural habit of wanting to communicate clearly, to be understood above the din. But tonight the gesture doesn’t seem benign or friendly to your husband.

To Chanyeol, across the room, still in conversation with Brian, the sight sets his blood on fire - makes him feel like a barbarian because he wants to dash across the room and force his best friend away from you. You tip your head back and laugh as Jun tells you a hilarious story about Brian’s sweet, but sorely misguided, attempts at speaking Spanish to the waitress at breakfast and Chanyeol loses it.

A moment later, your eyes meet his attention across the crowd; perpetually drawn to him like a moth to a flame. You give him a warm smile, feeling at ease from the drink in your glass, the hot, sticky breeze, and the air of celebration. But there’s no relaxation to be found in his irises. His grip on his glass should have broken the container; the intensity of his gaze hits you, even across the distance.

Your brow furrows, wondering what could have caused him to look so upset. You wonder if Brian is giving him bad news, but the bald man next to him is gesticulating wildly, clearly in the middle of one of his usual side-splitting stories about his kids. You tilt your head to the side in question, silently asking what the matter is.

He cuts his eyes to the side and you turn, feeling Jun’s closeness. His body is angled towards yours, an arm thrown over the back of his chair, the other on the table. He’s saying something about his wife, about some sassy remark she’d made to him while he was packing. You know it’s just how he is, the natural comfort and closeness that surrounds your ground of friends.

But in that moment, turning to look at him, you realize how it appears to Chanyeol. The low cut of the dress you wear. The flush in your cheeks from the alcohol and the warm night. The swath of Jun’s chest exposed by the shirt, his hand inches from yours as he swirls his glass. The way you are both still catching your breath from laughing so hard.

You look back at Chanyeol, your eyes widening in surprise and amusement. But he’s no longer talking to Brian. In confusion, you glance around the restaurant; a seed of worry growing in your stomach when you don’t see him. A beat later and you sense him behind you, hear his deep voice in your ear.

“Darling, can I have a word?” he says with forced casualness, his hand resting across the back of your neck possessively.

“Hey, Yeol. What a great trip so far, right? Looks like everyone’s having a fantastic time,” Junmyeon says to your left. “I wish the wife could have been here though, you know how much she loves the ocean,” he says fondly staring out at the water. “Too bad she got pulled into a conference.”

You turn to see him take another sip of his drink, drumming his fingers on the back of the chair, completely oblivious to the tension between you and your husband. He notices Brian nearby, stumbling badly. With a smooth motion he downs the rest of his drink and stands, clapping an affectionate hand on Chanyeol’s back.

“Guess I’d better go get him before he starts boring the first unsuspecting person he sees with tales of Andy and Sasha,” Junmyeon says with a grin and a shake of his head before walking off.

The air is charged; you can feel Chanyeol behind you, radiating unease. You know that his mind is racing a mile a minute. You turn in your chair, bringing your hand to his where his rests against your neck. Your eyes find his, knowing you both need to see each other to feel at peace. His irises are blown wide with a combination of desire and desperate anger.

“Baby, what is it? You know that we’re jus-” you start consolingly, hoping to soothe whatever ill thought has grown in his mind before it can take root.

“Can you please just come with me?” he asks, voice tight with tension, slightly squeezing the sensitive skin of your neck.

You nod immediately, rising to stand next to him. He drops his glass to the table with a muffled thud and clasps your hand in his. He pulls you swiftly through the crowd, pausing to nod and force a tight smile to his lips whenever you encounter an employee among the crowd.

Emerging into the open lobby, heading for the elevator, you hold onto him as though he’s your anchor. You don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight, but you’ve weathered storms together before and know that your bond has been built through blood and fire. Whatever this is, you’ll handle it.

The instant the doors close and you press the button for your floor, he whirls on you, his expression darkened by doubt and need. He draws your hands above your head with one large hand against the wall, his face hovering inches away from yours.

“If you need someone, I’m here. There’s no one but me, no one else. Say it,” He demands roughly.

“There’s no one else but you,” you repeat in a rush, eyes darting over his face to try and read what he’s feeling.

He closes his eyes briefly, reassured at least on some level. But he carries on.

“If you need someone to touch, it’s always going to be me. I’m not giving you an inch,” he laughs deeply.

The fingers of his other hand find the hem of your dress, sliding along the skin of your upper thigh, sending a rush of heat to your core.

“It sounds crazy and possessive, I know. But I’m your blinders, I want to be the only thing you see. If you wanted someone else, I couldn’t… the thought of someone else’s hands on you,” he says and rests his forehead against yours.

He bends down, slanting his lips over yours, hungry and hot. Even with his firm grip on your wrists, he’s gentle with you. His other hand trails across your thigh to the edge of your panties, teasing the skin there.

“The image of Junmyeon, of anyone else, getting to see the way you bite your lip when you come - I can’t stand it. I know we all fuck around and laugh about all of us sleeping together, but I can’t. Please, darling, never make me have to imagine that again. I’ll come apart at the seams,” he whispers against your lips.

The elevator pings behind him, the doors gliding open. You lean over to see an older couple standing there, blinking as they take in your closeness, his hand blessedly concealed by his body. In a rush he releases your wrists, removes his hand from you. He slings an arm around your waist and leads you out into the hallway with a muttered apology and nod to the couple.

Your heart races as you move down the hallway together, his firm hand on your waist gives you no room to move. Not that you mind - if you had your way you would fuse yourself into his very skin. Neither of you craves distance, space. The idea of separation, physical or emotional, causes you both pain. It’s always been like this, since the first moment his eyes locked on yours.

He unlocks the hotel room door in a fluid motion, pushing it open so you can slip in first. Once inside, you turn to face him, stepping up to cup his face in your hands. Continuing your conversation without pause.

“You know I only want you. Love, it’s just Jun,” you say softly, brushing your thumbs across his face. “Do you really think I need anyone but you? How can I even begin to imagine someone else when you’re the only person I want, from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep.”

You step closer, molding your body to his. “I’m pretty sure I even dream about your hands on me, lover,” you say emphatically, a smile tugging at your lips.

His eyes squeeze closed, his hands coming to cup your elbows. He nods, leaning his face into your touch. You feel the tension seep out of him and his breathing steadies. For a beat you stay like this, content to be his rock in the world, just as he is yours. When he opens his eyes you feel yourself jolt at the heat and desire you see there.

“I need you, now,” he says fiercely, drawing his hands up to your wrists to take hold.

You can sense what he wants, instantly. Some nights you take charge, pushing him to the bed, finding that weak spot behind his ears with your lips. Taking him deep within you as you ride him, finding your own release over and over before you finally allow him his.

But you’re both malleable, versatile. Hard when the other is soft, each ready to be what the other craves in the moment without hesitation. And on nights like these, when there’s steel in his back and desperate want in his eyes, you soften. Turn to liquid beneath his hands, ready to be formed into whatever shape he needs most.

“I’m always yours, Chaneyol. Whatever you need, I’m here,” you say, your words thick with longing.

He bends down, captures your lips the second you finish speaking. His hands curve around your ribs, pressing you against him, his fingers digging into the flesh. His thumbs find your nipples, straining against the thin fabric of your dress. Under his touch you preen, turning to silk against his rough, needy hands.

You moan into his mouth, a strangled sound that you know drives him crazy. Reaching behind his back, he blindly finds the ‘do not disturb’ sign. Pressing his hips against you he pulls open the door with one hand, sloppily placing it over the handle. Task complete, his hands slide over your dress, coming to grip the back of your thighs and swiftly lifting you into his arms.

With his mouth on yours, his teeth pulling at your lower lip, he walks you into the bathroom. He deposits you onto the wide marble countertop, coming to stand between your spread legs. Without giving you a second to prepare yourself he leaves your lips, trailing his tongue along your jaw, down your neck, into your cleavage.

He moans against your sternum, a breathy, erotic sound that makes you clench your thighs against your growing wetness. Getting on his knees, he runs his hands up the inside of your legs, spreading you wide for him. His skilled fingers find the soft flesh at the backs of your knees, knowing that it’s your kryptonite. You inhale sharply, gripping the edge of the counter as you watch a smirk form on his lips.

Even after all these years you’re still never ready for him, never ready for the way that he’s memorized every inch of your skin for the spots that leave you breathless.

After tormenting you with slow stokes of his fingertips he finally relents, lifting his hands to bunch up your dress. You push yourself up on your hands so he can ease your underwear off. He pulls you to the edge, running a finger through your folds to collect the wetness there. Looking up at you through his lashes he draws the digit between his lips and makes a noise of pleasure.

He pulls it out with a dramatic pop. “God, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Do you know how hard it makes me that I’m the only one who gets to walk around with your taste, your scent, on me? Fuck,” he groans.

You laugh, a warm, giddy sound - delighted at how the two of you match each other in possessiveness, among many other things. The sound dies on your lips, morphing into a high, keening noise as he bends over to capture your clit with his lips without warning.

He gives you no quarter, no relief, as he runs his tongue around the nub. His fingers toy with your entrance, pushing in to the first knuckle, no more. Over and over, until you’re breathing as if you’ve run a marathon. 

He’s relentless, circling two fingers around your inner walls in shallow motions, licking you like a cat who found a hidden store of cream. You’re a needy mess in no time, writhing against his face, his hand.

“Chanyeol. Please,” is all you can manage in between pants.

He speeds his motions up, his tongue drawing tighter circles, his fingers delving deeper. He pulls back for an instant, just long enough to utter one word that makes you clench yourself around his hand - “Beg.”

“Please, please,” you repeat. Again and again the words spill from you as you use all the will you possess to fight off your orgasm. The heat building in you has you strung tighter than a bow. You can’t take your eyes off his face, covered in your wetness, as he hums against you. Your cries become urgent, nonsensical, against his assault.

“Come,” he says, finally. Your orgasm overtakes you in a second, drawing a sound from your lips that’s almost a scream. 

He rides your release out, extending the sensation as best that he can. After a minute you still, resting your back against the mirror as you catch your breath. Your body feels boneless, twitching in the aftershocks as he cleans you up.

Still in a haze of pleasure from your release, you falter as he guides you off the counter top to stand in front of him. His firm hands turn you, bending you over the smooth surface. He pushes your dress up, baring your naked ass to him, sliding both palms over your skin. 

“Who do you belong to?” he asks. Before you can answer he spanks you, hard. The motion sends you jolting forward, draws a strangled noise of surprise from you. You sober instantly, emerging abruptly from the depths of your post-orgasm haze. The sting is sharp, morphing into pleasure as his hand soothes the spot.

“Only you,” you breathe when you can draw air into your lungs.

“Who gets to fuck you?” Again he doesn’t give you a second to answer, to prepare yourself, before his hand collides with the flesh of your other cheek.

You bite your lip around the wild moan that leaves you. He knows how much you crave his hands on you, how you feel wanted and claimed with his handprints on your skin. 

You know because you’re the same, you both have the fervent desire to mark each other as your own. You clench your legs together against a rush of need every time you see the scratches you leave on his back.

“You, only you,” you repeat, fingers desperately grabbing the counter to ground yourself against the heat in your core and the wetness pooling again between your legs at the combination of pleasure and pain and desire.

“Damn straight,” he huffs, his voice dark. He delivers a swift slap, gentler this time, to each cheek. “Fuck, I need to feel you around me. Now.”

He uses his feet to push your legs wider, running a hand along your back. In a rush he undoes his pants, shoving them to his knees along with his briefs. He pulls a condom from the box on the counter, winking at you in the mirror. You’d thought it wise to bring an extra large supply for this vacation. In a moment he’s sheathed and ready, sliding into you in a fluid motion that has both of you crying out.

His pace is brutal, pulling back and slamming against you, driving your hips against the hard surface. He buries a hand in your hair, gathering the strands around in a loose fist. With a pull he angles your body up, forcing you to brace your elbows on the counter. You can see the two of you in the wide mirror. He’s biting his lip, his eyes are blown out with lust as they meet yours and you let out a moan at the sight.

“Look at you. Fuck,” he says on a pant. “Look how good you take my cock. Look at your face - god you’re so gorgeous with me buried inside of you. You think anyone else could make you feel this good?”

You try to shake your head no, but end up tugging against his hold on your hair. The jerk sends a delicious thrill of sensation down your spine and you let out a hiss of pleasure. You steel yourself as he snaps his hips, driving himself into you over and over so quickly you don’t feel tethered to the earth anymore.

“Hold yourself still, I need my hands,” he growls.

He pulls you to him, your back flush against his chest. You grip the counter so tight your fingers go numb, readying yourself for him. He meets your eyes in the mirror, resuming his steady thrusts as he bands an arm around you, cupping a breast in his palm.

He wraps his other hand around your throat, smirking as he watches the heat flood your eyes as his fingers find the proper placing. After years of practice, he knows exactly how you like it.

He applies light pressure, allowing you shallow breaths as he fucks you. You buck your hips back against him, meeting his thrusts as best you can. But after your earlier orgasm, your blood still thick with pleasure as heat builds in you again, you can only manage a frenzied rhythm. As he finds that spot inside you, hits it with every stroke at this angle, your eyes start rolling back.

“If you close your eyes I’ll stop and not let you come all night,” he demands, his gravelly voice caressing across your skin like thunder.

You force your eyes open with a whine, already feeling them try to close from the onslaught of sensation. You’re both so close to your release it’s painful, a sheen of sweat across your chests. The sound of his groans, the desperate noises trying to make their way out of your throat around his hand, the wet sound of your friction, echoes in the space.

You know better than to come without his permission when he’s like this. He shakes his head, answering the unspoken question in your eyes. Your answering moan is ragged, desperate – a plea. It feels like you’ll burst into flames if you don’t find your release, like holding it off is tearing you apart.

His hand across your chest swiftly moves down to your aching clit and begins rubbing loose circles. “Deep breath,” he commands, releasing his grip enough for you to suck in a gasp of air.

Then he presses firmly down, expertly cutting off the flow of air. You’re so lost in him, in your pleasure that you can hardly focus. But you cling to one thing – his harsh command to come. Your orgasm crashes through you, exploding at the base of your spine, heat erupting along your limbs, up the base of your neck.

Through your haze you feel him find his own release, thrusting into you wildly, panting in your ear. A beat later and he removes his hand from your throat. His hands steady you, holding you against him as you gasp in air.

He murmurs praise, tells you you’re perfect, that you’re his, as you find your center; as the world comes back into focus. The first thing you lock on is his face in the mirror where it rests lightly on your shoulder, a warm smile on his lips.

Your mouth twitches as you stare at the two of you. The messy sprawl of your hair where it sticks to your face. His shirt askew, his blissed out expression. The way you’re both flushed, your eyes gleaming in the warm light of the expensive room. In the stillness you can hear the soft lull of the ocean outside your window.

With a sigh you lift your hands to rest on top of his, reveling in the heaviness of your limbs, saturated with pleasure. He presses a soft kiss to your neck and you can feel him smile against your skin. His hands, now gentle, ease you out of the remainder of your clothes.

He makes fast work of his own before guiding you through the sliding door to the outdoor shower. The partition hides the lower halves of your bodies from anyone that would look in, not that either of you would care if someone saw. Through the exposed top half of the opening you can see that night has fully fallen now, the inky black stretching out into the horizon over the deep blue ocean.

The outdoor shower is easy enough to figure out and you quickly start a flow of cool water and step under it together. In the shower you wash the salt and sweat from each other’s skin with languid movements; you whisper promises to each other and get lost in your connection all over again.


End file.
